


Black Eyes

by Bearded_Cupcake_143



Category: Original Work
Genre: Memoirs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 12,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22483396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bearded_Cupcake_143/pseuds/Bearded_Cupcake_143
Summary: My memoirs from the first 25 years of life. It's not pretty.
Kudos: 1





	1. Prologue

She forgot what mercy tasted like. She had to, to forget how it tasted as sweet as saltwater taffy in summertime. Nothing sweet survives war. This undeclared war. She was the battleground, the opposing army. Fighting, fighting him. She longed for sweetness on days that salt clogged everything. Her pores, her mouth, her eyes. She could suffocate in salt. She was a salt mine. She could recount every grain.  
It won't hurt.  
She had to count, to believe him. Count the freckles on his arms and shoulders. Count his eyelashes, count the shadows on the wall. Keep counting, and telling herself the numbers mattered.  
Why won't you smile?  
And a grimace leaves her lips, like a startled bird. When did she let it go? Didn't she have the key?  
Staring out of her eyes, her face, was someone else. Her doppelganger, her savior. And she pretends, when he covers her face with a pillow, it's all part of the game.  
I'll kill you.  
She was a failure. A dirty thing. Shameful. She now possessed one smooth scar that was all his. They were close, and she could feel his breath on her shoulder, hot and sour.


	2. Part I

The pills were so small. I should have counted them before swallowing. Everyone kept asking how many, and I couldn't think of a solid number. You'd think that, believing it to be my last act on Earth, I would have counted.  
I did dress up. I put on this white muslin dress and wore nice underwear. I learned, like so many children, that if you're going to die always wear clean underwear. God forbid the coroner think me low class.  
About 20 minutes later, I was puking up my breakfast and the pills. The color was a muddy orange. Shaking, I laid a towel in the middle of the bathroom. I ended up shitting myself right on the bathroom floor while I cowered with my neck curved around the base of the toilet. My dress was ruined. My attempt to be thought innocent and pure was destroyed.  
I don't know how, but I managed to clean up the bathroom floor. Then, I stripped down and threw my clothes into the tub. I wobbled back to my room. Grabbing the nearest shirt and shorts, I climbed into bed. I pulled the clothes on as best I could, and laid in the fetal position for the rest of the day.  
After what felt like years, I heard Mom come home. She climbed upstairs, paused at my door, and then went to her room. I wanted her to come save me, to some how magically know I needed her. I shivered and shook unable to get warm enough or cold enough. I vomited stomach acid into my bed. It was a yellowed goop that quickly soaked into my bed sheets.  
That's when I texted my mother. I was mortified, but all I wanted was her. She came stomping into my room. I watched as her eyes locked onto the empty pill bottle that was sitting on top of my note. She was surprisingly calm.  
I mumbled “sorry” and “I shouldn't have done it” and “help”. I even meant it. She helped me climb into her bed. I laid there shaking, holding my stuffed animal so tight my knuckles hurt. I tossed and turned all night. My stomach was completely empty, and no amount of strategic blanket placement could get me comfortable. It was a long night.  
In the morning, she called my therapist, got me dressed, and took me downstairs. I was just blank, empty. I wanted to cry and sob and scream, but everything felt so dry and brittle. She helped me into the car. I was so vulnerable and weak, that I allowed myself to be manipulated into doing what she wanted.  
Instead of the ER, she took me to the “doc-in-the-box”. Urgent Care. They poked and prodded, getting my vitals, while I hung on to the stuffed animal I brought with me. His name was Winston, and he was a English Bulldog. Years later, I would leave him in a hotel room, and only realize he was gone when we were to far down the road to go back and get him.  
I shuffled into the room behind the paper curtain. A doctor came in, saying I needed to go to the ER. She was blond with a round chin and pudgy finger. She seemed almost bored. Later, a nurse I don't remember came in with a large, black policeman. He was solid, full of sharp angles and hard lines. I was frightened of him, thinking he was going to arrest me. I remembered that trying to commit suicide was illegal.  
Then, two men with a gurney between them came in, and started asking the same questions the nurse had asked. That's when I started stuttering. The pills I had tried to OD on had affected my nervous system, at least that's what I thought. I may have just been overwhelmed and exhausted. Eventually, everyone calmed down long enough to get me on the gurney. The men who wheeled me out looked friendly, like I was simply being brought somewhere for my own good.  
I kept my eyes closed until they got me into the ambulance. They took my vitals, again, while Mom climbed into the back with me. The ride was short, and when we got to the hospital, I closed my eyes again as the wheeled me into a room. There was this feeling like I was in a fishbowl. I remember wanting desperately to not have people looking at me. I felt like an exposed nerve. The policeman was still with us, watching me like I might try to leap from the gurney and fling myself off the nearest cliff.  
A male nurse and a “counselor” came in the room. The nurse was asking all kinds of questions, like I was a specimen on a dissection table. I could see Mom out of the corner of my eye. She was getting angrier in ways you can only tell if you know her. As his questions got more invasive and insensitive, she finally exploded. The cop almost dragged her out of the room. As soon as she was gone, I started to panic. Mom demanded that I get a new nurse. The male nurse walked off in a huff. A nice, thin, blonde lady with neat fingernails took his place.  
Then, the counselor started asking questions. He seemed determined to get to the bottom of it. Maybe he was wondering if I was really crazy or I just wanted attention. He finally asked if I would be willing to be committed to a facility. I said yes, mainly because I wanted to get as far away from him as possible.  
They decided to send me to a place in Williamsburg. Mom's friend, who's name I forget but I do remember his mustache, showed up to take her back to her car. While she was gone, the medical transport team arrived. They wanted to take me while my Mom was gone, saying that when she got back to the hospital, she could get directions. I refused to leave. I started crying, and the black lady who was supposed to drive me agreed to wait until she got back. She held my hand and tried to keep me calm while Mom got the car.  
Mom was crying when she got back. Not big sobbing crying, I've never seen her do that. Just that angry crying, where you're not sure of anything and you just want people to listen to you. They loaded me into the van, and we took off. I couldn't see Mom following us through the back window. I just hoped she was there. The nice lady sat in the back with me, through the whole ride. She seemed like a good listener, so I just unloaded on her. Everything I had been keeping in just started pouring out of me, like I was a deflating balloon. The more I talked, the lighter I felt, like maybe this was all I really needed. Just someone to listen to me.


	3. Part II

This was my first mental health facility. I was walked into a nice marble foyer and the medical transport people checked me in. Mom came in shortly after and sat with me. Everything was in soft, neutral tones and the arm chairs were plush. We waited for what seemed like a long time. I was getting anxious again, filling up with all the bile I had been trying to bury within myself.  
One of the directors finally took Mom and I into her office. She didn't look like someone you expect to know anything about mental health. Her office was the same shade of beige as everything else. Even the ficus in the corner seemed beige. She asked a lot of questions that Mom answered for me. I didn't feel up to talking anymore. I was just so tired and hungry. I simply held onto Winston and nodded in all the right places.  
Mom asked if we could eat. The director smiled and brought in a tray of food. It was some kind of casserole and it tasted bland. It reminded me of cafeteria food. Mom and I shared while the director buzzed around us, going between her desk and her file cabinet. Finally, she said I was all ready and it was time for Mom to go. I had forgotten that you can't bring your Mommy to the nut house with you. I hugged my mother as hard as I could, hoping she'd come back to me. Hoping she wouldn't leave me here, all by myself, forever. She hadn't been the best of Mom's, but when it's all you have, you don't want to let go.  
Mom went back to the front door and I was led down the hallway. Big metal doors opened on to a nurses station. It seemed at the beginning of a long hallway and there were more doors on the left hand side. Everything was white. It was sanitary, like someone was working hard to keep signs of life out of the building. The showed me to a room off of their station, where I could wait. It was a modest room, with tables along one wall and big windows on the other that looked into the hallway. In the middle of the room were pleather chairs, all facing a big flat screen TV that no one in the room was watching. There was an old man sitting in a corner and an Asian woman who looked about forty sitting at one of the tables. A frail white lady, wearing the ugliest gray sweater I had ever seen was busy with her nose in a bible. On the back wall, there a was a black fridge, a sink, and a coffee and water dispenser. In the little bit of space that was available on the back wall, were windows that looked out into the parking lot.  
The Asian woman, who I would later learn was Miss Sue, asked me if I was okay and if I was new and if they let me keep my stuffed animal. I just stared at her, unsure of what to say. Then she asked my name. Finally, a question I could answer. I stuttered hard but eventually got it out.  
A nurse appeared at my elbow and took me back out into the hallway. They took Winston and my bracelets away from me. I didn't have earrings in or they would have taken those, too. They told me they had to take everything that I could hurt myself with away from me. I wondered what I could do with a stuffed dog to cause mortal injury. Then, the nurse opened a closet I hadn't noticed and started digging out towels and toiletries, and handing them to me. I realized that I didn't have a thing with me. Just the clothes on my back. I started worrying about how I was going to shave.  
She then walked me down the hallway to my room. It was plain, like no one had ever lived there. The mattress was plastic, just like in college and a table that seemed to grow from the wall stuck out between the two beds. The nurse put sheets on mine. The frail, white lady walked into the room and I was introduced to Nadine. She was even slimmer up close, and very quiet. When she talked it was like a Vulcan was speaking, with no tone or inflection. We shook hands and the nurse walked us back to the day room.  
They gathered everyone in circle, and a counselor who looked like he still lived at home with his mother sat down. They started asking us about goals and what color we felt like that day. I remember thinking “This is the stupidest thing I have ever done in my life”. I paid more attention the people who I was going to be spending the next 8 days with.  
There was Miss Sue and Miss Colleen. They were about forty and very kind. There was Gary, the old man, who was a veteran from Florida. Bud was a motorcyclist with severe depression. There was also Chris, a manic bipolar guy who was built like a telephone pole. None of them seemed crazy enough to be hospitalized. They seemed normal, well adjusted. Then, when after everyone was forced to say something, the session ended and they let us do what ever we wanted.  
The chair I was sitting in was creaky. I squeaked it a couple of times, just to make sure. I don't know why it was important to me, but I felt like it made sense. People were reading, watching T.V., staring at the walls, or just walked back to bed. Then, they made us take medication. We lined up at the nurse's station. When it was my turn, they gave me two paper cups. One with pills and another with water. I didn't recognize it as anything I was already on. I took it anyway. They also checked everyone's vitals. It seemed tedious. How much could my vitals change since the last time they checked it?  
They told me I was still at high risk and they had to watch me, so I couldn't even go to bed yet. At 10 o clock, they cleared everyone out of the day room and sent us all to bed. A nurse followed me with a chair. When we got to my room, she placed it outside the door and told me I couldn't shut it because she had to watch me. Nadine was already in bed. I sat on the plastic mattress and put my glasses on the table. I laid down in the clothes I had been wearing all day. The light from the hallway made a weird shape on the ceiling that seemed blurry because I didn't have my glasses on. It was a long time before I fell asleep.


	4. An Observation

Hours pass strangely in hospitals. If you've ever been committed to an institution, you know that feeling. Everything is like dried chewing gum. Gray, hard, and impossible to stretch. It clings to things, leaving tendrils no matter how much you rub it all together.  
Days blur, which is strange because the minutes are so agonizingly distinct. You can lose days, weeks, if you're not careful. The psychologically approved taupe walls and the pictures screwed into them makes everything feel impermanent. As if you blink for one second, and you could be falling out of existence. Then, when you open your eyes again, there's more pills to take.  
Medication is the one things that bind all us patients together. Trading information on each other is better than baseball stats. You tell what you're on and then your neighbor says they were on a low dose of that last week as they were weaned on to Drew's roommates med. The only thing not discussed is why you're on it in the first place.  
You'd think, as there isn't anything more interesting to talk about, our diagnosis and personal trauma would be fair game. And sometimes, you get the patients who like to talk about it. These are usually the real nuts, who buy into the system hook, line, and sinker.  
They'll tell you everything from disorder to rape to voices to Jesus. Sometimes, all in the same sentence. Repeatedly. Like, they love reliving it. They tell every new admit and remind people on the way out. The rest of us just offer the same sympathies.  
We are silent watchers, who only drop hints about our lives and look at you with sad glances. We prefer to talk about anything else, keeping things light and affable. I was one of these. I had been told by my mother not to talk about what had happened to me. That it wasn't anybody's business. Eventually, the doctor got me to open up. Once I did, there was no stopping me. I would tell anyone who would listen, and even some people who didn't. It was liberating. People knew. They saw me, all of me. I wasn't half a picture anymore. And I vowed I would never keep quiet again.


	5. Bulls-Eye

My brother and I were supposed to be cleaning our room. We had just moved to an apartment in Norfolk, after my parents split for the last time. I wasn't particularly invested in the situation either way. I knew I loved my dad and I loved my Mom, and if they didn't want to love each other, then I was fine with that. I just had to love each of them more to make up for it. My brother and I were sharing the master bedroom, as it was the biggest room in the house. I was sorting through the toy box and my brother was leaning against the wall next to me.  
I pulled cars and doll clothes out. Sorting and stacking, sorting and stacking. My brother was busy bending a metal coat hanger and fiddling with a suction cup arrow. I was getting upset because, as usual, he wasn't helping me.  
“Look over here” he said. And I did.  
He used the hanger as a bow and fired the arrow into my left eye. I screamed while my brother laughed. I scrambled off the floor and out of the room, his laugh echoing down the hall after me. Mom was in the living room, taking up half the couch, slumped and deflated. She barely glanced up when I came barreling into the room.  
“Mom!”  
She blinked, as if surprised, like I had just poofed into existence and she didn't know what to do with me.  
“Mom, Mitchell just shot me in the eye with an arrow!” My voice was clipped and hoarse.  
“Stop crying and just take it out.” She turned her head back to the T.V., and her eyes glazed over. I slunk back into the hall towards the bathroom. Staring out of my one good eye, I examined myself in the mirror. My face was splotchy from crying and the arrow stuck out gigantic in perspective.  
Gingerly, I grasped the shaft of the arrow. The slightest touch was too painful to bear. Taking a deep breath, I started to pull. There was searing pain and I grew frightened of my eye popping out with the arrow. Finally, with a horrid sucking sound, the arrow let go of my eye. I pitched it into the sink and cradled the left side of my face. Peeking through my fingers, I saw my eye was a monstrous red globe. You could hardly tell what color the iris was.  
I cried silently, even though it stung my eye more than anything I had ever experienced. Creeping back to the living room, I peered around the corner, wondering if Mom was concerned about me. Her eyes were glued to the T.V., her palm caressing a sweating glass of tea on one side and a bag of half burnt popcorn on the other. Her lips were shiny with popcorn butter and salt. I sat back in the hallway, whimpering softly into my knees. My brother was still laughing.


	6. One Day

November 11th, 2002 is a day that will be burned into my brain for the rest of my life. It was a cold and misty morning, and my brother and I had managed to get dressed for school without incident. I was even wearing my brand new golden stockings. Mom bundled us into the car, grumbling to herself.  
We had started driving down the road that ran parallel to the base. Mitchell and I were arguing in the back seat, about what I don't remember. Mom looked up for five seconds, yelling at us.  
Everything changed into screeching metal and power that had been released from the air bags. We had into a car that had been parked off the side of the road, crushing the doors on our right side. We skidded to a stop, and my Mom groaned from the front seat.  
“Are you all right back there?!” she asked, frantic. Before we could answer, she was pawing at the floorboards up front, trying to reach her phone. My brother started chanting “I can't breathe. I can't breathe.” No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't open my door. I was mute with terror. Sirens and lights pulled up behind us. Finally, the police pried us out of the car. We stood there, shivering and bruised in the middle of the road. The car we had hit belonged to a man working on the base. He wasn't even supposed to be driving.  
The police huddled us into one of their cars and drove us back around the corner to our apartment. We slunk upstairs, and Mom collapsed on the couch. “Be quiet and go to your room” was all she said. After a few minutes, her soft snores filled the living room. We crept softly to our bedroom and closed the door behind us. My brother flung his back pack against the wall. I slumped onto my bed and toed off my shoes.  
“Do you want to play a game?” he asked casually, as if we hadn't just been in a car accident. I should have known it would end badly, but I said yes.  
We started making a fort using the top of the bunk bed to drape blankets. We slipped under and waited for him to explain the game.  
“We're playing time machine” Mitchell said, positioning my pillows like a steering wheel. I sat next to him, pretending to push buttons on a control panel. We writhed and wiggled and pretended to crash into a “special” room.  
“This room makes you fall in love with me” he said. I was confused. He forced me to lay down. He took my shirt and skirt off me. Growing impatient, he ripped my stockings and underwear off. Then, he took his clothes off, too. I stared at him, feeling a cold sweat start at the back of my knees.  
Using my pillow to cover my face, he pushed down hard, so I couldn't breathe. I tried to swat him off me, but he had pinned my arms with his other hand. I clamped my legs together as tight as they would go. It was no use. Shoving his knee between my legs, he dug his nails into my wrist.  
“I dare you to scream.”  
My eyes watered when he let go of my arms and jammed his hand between my thighs. He sunk his nails into my skin, making me bleed. Then, he was inside me, pushing and pushing. It felt like being ripped apart. After a few minutes, something wet and sticky started puddling underneath me.  
His head sunk down to my breast, and he sucked at my nipples, biting into my skin. He crawled off me, grabbed his clothes, and went back to his side of the room. I laid on my back, bruised, leaking, and wanting to throw up. Closing my eyes, I tried to squash down all the bile inside. Then, he came back. He forced me off my bed and onto my knees. He pulled out his penis.  
“Suck it” he demanded. I opened my mouth and he thrusted in. His hands squeezed my head. When he pulled away again, I was sobbing. He slapped me. Hard.  
“Even if you tell anyone, no one will believe you. You're an ugly freak. That's why Dad left.” He glared down at me, mouth twisted into a cocky grin. He left me on my knees, whimpering.  
I forced myself to crawl to the bathroom. Blubbering, I wiped his sweat and semen off of me. I scooped the sticky stuff out of me. I dug and dug until I was bone dry. I wiped the blood from my wrists and thighs with peroxide. The stinging felt good. The pain was good.  
If I could just keep hurting, then what happened wasn't real. It was just a nightmare I could wake up from. Slathering my toothbrush, I scrubbed my mouth until it bled. Spitting it out, I saw the toothpaste foam was a bright pink. I opened my mouth wide and saw how raw my gums were. I touched them softly. They throbbed. Gingerly, I tiptoed back to our room. My brand new golden stockings were in slivered pieces on the floor.  
I was 8.


	7. Blue Moon

When I was little, we spent every Christmas at my grandma's house. One year, my Mom drove us up, but she didn't stay. She said dad would take us home. That idea alone ruined Christmas for me. Opening presents, eating dinner, playing midnight Christmas poker, watching the relatives get drunk. Behind all of it was this sweaty fear that clung to my armpits.  
The day after Christmas, a blue moon was rising as dad led us to the truck he rented. It used to be baby blue, but rust had laced up the sides and across the hood. On the front, perched precariously above the bumper, was a chrome grill. It was thick, like teeth.  
My father swung himself into the cab of the truck, while Mitchell and I had to clamber into the other side. I got stuck against the cold door with the handle gouging into my thigh. We were each bundled up in puffy coats. We breathed in and out, fogging and unfogging.  
After we had been on the road a little ways, my father turned down the music, so Lauretta Lynn's warbling was at a murmur. He raised his hand and pointed out the windshield to the moon. It looked so small, snagging on thin, black tree branches in a starless sky. He said it was a blue moon, and how rare they were.  
He started ranting about how much he did for us. Child support and love. I watched the smoke unfurling from his cigarette. He puffed out of his nose like a dragon. The more he cursed, the harder I pushed myself into the door. I was half tempted to open it and roll into a ditch to get away.  
We slowed and pulled off to a spit of a town with a name I can't remember. If you asked me to pick out on the map where we were, I wouldn't have been able to do it. Dad mumbled something about “ungrateful” as he parked in a Church's Chicken parking lot. My brother and I leapt from the truck, glad to be away from the smoke and built up anger my father had stuffed in between us like sand.  
We jogged to keep up with him, eyes glued to the thin spread of black hair on the back of his head. Blasted by a warm, greasy smell at the door, I shucked my coat and hat. Dad pointed a finger at a booth, and we folded into it, waiting. I picked at the chipping linoleum and Mitchell peaked over the fake foliage as dad bought food. Loping back to us, he dropped the tray with a clatter. He slumped into the bench opposite us and dug his thick fingers into the fries.  
He grumbled again, barely audible behind a layer of fried chicken. I looked down, so I wouldn't have to look at him. My sneakers had come untied. Leaning down, I tried to tie it again. I was half way through bunny ears when a burning pain rolled down my chest. I shrieked. Looking up, I saw my dad, cigarette in hand. His eyes were burning.  
“Dad?” I asked, confused. Tears pricked my eyes, begging whatever god there was to make him say “sorry” or “it was an accident”. His eyes passed over me, and some longing part of me was born in that Moment. My heart ached for my daddy.  
“Stop crying” he snapped. He dragged me out of the booth by my shirt and started walking me to the door. Mitchell brought up the rear. We looked like some absurd parade, and it all felt so wet and lonely. I wiped away tears spitefully, as we piled back into the truck. My face was raw and tight, so I placed my forehead against the window.  
Dad drove the rest of the way, fuming in silence. We listened to gospel and bluegrass all the way down 64. As we pulled into the apartment complex, I felt a sickening lurch in my stomach. No one said anything, but as we dragged ourselves up the stairs, I knew we'd never talk about it.  
After dropping us at the door, Dad disappeared back into his world. A world, I imagined, smoky and spicy, full of dark, special things I would never know. I laid in bed that night, just staring out the window. I thought a lot of things that night, but mostly, I just listened to the ache in the hollow of my chest.


	8. Little Girls

Little girls are some of the cruelest people on the planet. Fifth grade was hard for me, as I developed faster than the other girls. Puberty led to what I now know as PCOS, but at the time, I called it “Bearded Lady Disease'. I had to shave every morning out of fear of what the other kids would call me. Their insults weren't especially creative, but it hurt all the same.  
Chewbacca. Freak. Fatty. Nerd. Every night, I would look in the mirror and try to see just one good thing. One thing that could redeem me, make me love myself. Every night, I would go to bed hearing their voices circling in my head.  
One day, I went to the bathroom after a math test. I had finished early and wanted some relief from the staring, the half pointing, the whispers. I sat on the toilet, counting the yellow tiles and reading the graffiti. I traced the gouges in the cold, metal door.  
I heard the bathroom door swing open and the tapping of girls' feet reverberate around the room. I couldn't hear what they were whispering, and then the faucets turned on. They started hurling cold water over the top of the stall on to me. To this day, I can still hear their cruel giggling. Trembling and wet, I shuffled back to the classroom. I shakily explained to Mrs. Cole, my fifth grade teacher, what happened.  
“You're fine. Just go sit down.” she said, rolling her eyes.  
“Can I call my Mom, please?” I whispered, feeling everyone staring holes into my dripping back.  
“Fine” she sighed, and handed me the phone. I stepped out into the hallway and dialed my mother's number.  
“Hello.”  
“Mom, it's me.”  
“What's wrong?”  
“Some girls poured water on me while I was in the bathroom, and now I'm wet and crying. Can you please come get me?”  
“Rachel,” she sighed, “School is almost over, just wait it out.” Then, she hung up.  
I went back into the classroom, and handed back the phone. Stiffly, I squelched back to my seat. My eyes stayed glued to the floor, but I couldn't stop up my ears. Whispers ran rampant. That's when I noticed the water had made my shirt see through. The entire classroom could see my stomach and my bra, even my nipples were visible, thanks to the chill in the air.  
Finally, the bell rang but I still couldn't go home. My brother and I had to go to after school care provided by the YWCA. The counselor's didn't seem to notice how I was feeling or that I didn't want to play. I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Mom picked us up, late as usual, and drove us home.  
As soon as I got in the door, I hid in the bathroom and wept. My face was hot with embarrassment and it stuck in the back of my throat like a wad of gum. My brother pounded on the door. I opened it and followed him to the bedroom. I learned to stop fighting it, but he would always cover my face with the pillow.  
Mom hate it when Mitchell got hurt. Any bruise I gave him, he would proudly display, and I'd end up getting spanked. So, I just took it. I wore long sleeves and pants to cover the cuts and bruises. Late that night, when Mom and Mitchell were asleep, I snuck into the kitchen. I felt ethereal in my white night gown. Rustling quietly through the drawers, I found what I was looking for.  
Back in my mother's youth, she had worked for a lot of food places. One remnant from her checkered past was a long butchers knife. I sat cross legged in the middle of the kitchen, rubbing the length of the blade with my thumb. I felt numb, like the world was some big, imagined thing I was now bored with.  
I pointed the tip of the blade right at my sternum. I started pushing slowly, piercing my night gown and pressing it like a kiss to my skin. I wanted to make the pain go away. I thought I was repulsive. I pressed deeper and small, red bead of blood started a slow descent towards my navel. The sting didn't hurt as much as I thought it would have. I put the knife away and went back to bed. I never wore that night gown again.


	9. Mommy Loves You

I've always hated dishes. I would get stuck on dish duty while Mom and Mitchell watched T.V. One day, most likely a Saturday if I remember it right, Mitchell finally had dish duty. Mom was out for the morning, and Mitchell was still watching T.V. I grew angrier by the second. I consoled myself with the thought that he would get the ass whooping of a lifetime.  
Just then, Mom walked in the door, arms heavy with groceries. Dropping the bags on the carpet, she followed me into the kitchen. Her eyes seemed to squint in disbelief and her lips pursed. Turning around, she looked my brother up and down.  
“Was it your turn to do dishes?” she asked. He shook his head no. My heart sunk down to my ankles. She turned back to me as I tried to slink down the hall.  
“Why didn't you do the dishes?” Her eyes bored into me. She asked again, and I just stood there, frozen,  
“He's lying” I insisted, pointing at him, trying to convince her. She started coming towards me. I stepped back. She came faster and faster, backing me into the end of the hallway. Her great, meaty hands came down hard across my head. She swung and swung. I wet myself, crouched I the back of the hallway, pressed against the linen closet. When she finally stopped, she pointed back at the kitchen.  
“I can't. Mom, I can't. I have to clean this up. Please!” I whimpered, tears streaming down my face. Mom looked like she might but hit me again, but simply waddled back to the living room. Digging a towel out of the closet, I sunk to the floor, sopping up my own urine. After that, I went and did the dishes.  
My tears rolled down my nose and splashed into the soapy water. Mom and Mitchell were watching T.V. When I was finally done, I hid in the bathroom, hugging a towel that had been hanging up. My world was spiraling out of control. I hung onto this blue, fluffy towel like it was my last life line.


	10. Dreams

When I was little, I wanted to be a ballerina. Mom had bought me this book that showed me how to place my feet sideways and stretch my arms out to the tips of my fingers, like I was holding tissue paper. I would suck in my stomach and raise my neck, like the book said. I would spin myself dizzy, eyes turned to the sky. Collapsing onto my back, I would shut them and pretend I was flying. Mom even bought me a tulle skirt to entertain myself with. I'd wear it every where, scrambling through bushes and up trees. I would pretend I was a long-lost princess, that I was special.  
One day, after we had done laundry, I went digging for my skirt. Plucking out t-shirts and underwear I tossed carelessly behind me, I dug all the way to the bottom of the basket. My had touched the plastic lightly, hoping for more laundry to go through. I struggled to understand, refused to. Laughter made me turn to check over my shoulder. Mitchell was standing on his bed, wearing my skirt. It repulsed me, strung low over his naked hips. My body froze, arm still stuck in the laundry basket. He snickered, sticking out his front teeth.  
After standing in that position for a few seconds, he sprung at me. It was all so familiar yet foreign, like a badly rehearsed play. I pretended the pillow was just a cloud. I was being hugged by a cloud. After he finished on top of me for what felt like the fifth time, he got off me. I heard ripping and cruel giggling. I moved the pillow slowly, not wanting to see. .My favorite skirt laid in a tattered heap around my brother's feet. His eyes were black, as though they were burnt.  
We both dressed in silence. He had a satisfied smirk on his face, I wore a pursed frown. My child's heart was still too tender to bear these small, needling hurts. I would learn to harden myself. I make myself an impenetrable fortress.  
I followed my brother out into the living room, aching silently and covered from the neck down. I had stopped trying to wash him off me, it only made next time worse. Mom returned from whatever errand she had been running, swinging a greasy fast food bag next to her black leather purse. Long gone were the days of homemade mashed potatoes and green beans with fatback. Mom's job made her too tired to cook.  
We spread out burgers and fries on the wooden coffee table in full view of the unused dining room. I turned my back on it. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Mitchell steal one of my fries. I bristled at the injustice of it all. I leaned in real close and smacked him as hard as I could. The reverberation seemed to stop time. Looking back and forth at each other, my arm slid limply back to my side. Something had been broken, something secret betrayed. Mom grew redder and redder while I felt pale with terror.  
“What do you think you're doing Rachel Ilene?” Mom growled. Mitchell took this opportunity to squeeze out a few crocodile tears. My entire body went cold and a sudden urge to rip my hand off flashed through my mind.  
“You cannot hit your brother. He's smaller than you. You could really hurt him” she said, glaring holes into me. I left the room as she took my brother into the cradle of her arms.  
I spread myself flat on my back, splaying my fingers across my flower bedspread. Mom's words were echoing in my ears. Can't hit, can't hit, can't hit. I would follow Mom's rule and I would never lay another hand on him, no matter what. For six years, I endured unspeakable things. Anything my brother dished out, I absorbed in silence. I just wanted to be a good girl.


	11. Girl Scouts

My mother always wanted me to make friends with other girls. I had withdrawn so far that the only thing able to reach me was books. I devoured words, longing to be rescued by a knight or become a princess. Something to turn me into someone special, to save myself.  
Mom was not satisfied with that, so she got it into her head to get me into girl scouts. She went all out, buying books and uniforms and pins and badges. I thought it was ridiculous. Why couldn't I have been left alone? That didn't fit into Mom's plan.  
She set about gathering up girls to be in our troop. I was the oldest and treated with suspicion, especially since Mom was one of the troop leaders. I wanted to yell at them, make them go away. They were vapid, self-involved little girls who all wanted to grow up way too fast.  
We met every Wednesday and I learned to dread it. Mom would set out snacks and Kool-Aid, and then force me into a brownie hat and vest. They were both tight, but I had no choice. I scuffed back to the living room. Mom was perusing the handbook for the billionth time.  
“Mom, I don't want to do this.”  
“Rachel, it's good for you. Just try.”  
“But the other girls make fun of me all the time.”  
“It's not that bad. You need to set an example.” It was then I noticed my brother, shirtless, on the floor.  
“What's Mitchell doing here?”  
“He's here for CPR training.”  
“I don't want him here.”  
“Stop being difficult, Rachel. There. Open the door,” she said, pointing one sausage finger at the knocking. I peered out of the peephole and was greeted with the bug blue eyes of Kat. She and her sister were blonde hellions. On more than one occasion, Kat had pinched me with her sharp, little nails. I opened the door.  
They both marched in, followed by Jessica, then Brianna, and several others who I can no longer remember. They all plopped down around the coffee table, chattering about make up they were too young to wear and boys they were too naive to understand.  
When they had calmed down a decibel, Mom started in on the ABC's of CPR. I blocked most of it out while staring at my half naked brother. I felt moist all over and a sickening tingle from between my legs. Finally, it was over, and Mom let us eat the snacks and talk before the parents got there. I disappeared to the bathroom, feeling a cold sweat down my neck. Some of the girls followed me to the bathroom, and they circled like harpies as I stared into the mirror.  
“Hippo” Kat sneered.  
“Yeah, you look just like a hippo” her sister added. She always followed Kat. Then, they started chanting it. Hippo, hippo, hippo. I felt numb, letting my skin soak up their words. Bored with me, they skipped out to the waiting warmth of their parents.  
Peeking out from the bathroom, I saw my brother was still prancing half naked around the living room. I ducked into my room and locked the door. The lack of tears surprised me. I just ached.


	12. Ratface

I had a hamster. He was small and tan and loved to escape his cage. His name was Ratface, because he was tiny when I got him, and his face looked like a rat's. I would let him ride around in my shirt pockets. We'd all pet him and give him treats. He was a good hamster.  
When we would travel to Grandma's house, we would situate his cage in between Mitchell and I in the backseat. He would skitter around and run on his squeaky wheel. First thing I would do when we got there, was put him in his ball so he could take in his surroundings.  
The last time we took him with us was Easter, and Mom was giving Dad a lift as well. I used to love the smell of his cigarettes and cologne, but I didn't want him to suffocate Ratface.. I rolled down my window, trying to get some fresh air. Mitchell started complaining about being cold. I told him to shut up.  
“Ratface can't breathe” I hissed, waspishly.  
“No one cares about your stupid hamster, nut brain.”  
“Ratface is not stupid.”  
“Yes he is. Just like you. Stupid hamster and stupid girl.”  
I was mad and tattled to Mom. I shouldn't have, because now he had a reason to hurt me. His eyes turned black.  
We got to grandma's and did all the hugging and kissing, until finally they let us go play. We raced to the barn. We loved climbing up to the loft to look out at everything. That's where Mitchell cornered me.  
He made me take off my pants and pushed me back onto some old tarp and stray hay. Then, he was on top of me, thrusting. Squeezing, pinching, biting. I just waited for it to be over. When her got off me, it was dusk, so we ran back to the house.  
After a large dinner, we all hung out and I played with Ratface in the den. At bedtime, I put him back in his cage with carrots for a midnight snack. Then, we all went to bed.  
The next morning, I woke up early to feed Ratface. With bag in hand, I opened his lid. He was flat on his back, his little pink feet pointed at the sky, white belly exposed. I was so shocked, I didn't even cry.  
A little bit before we had to leave, I grabbed an old Tupperware container and a trowel. I dug a hole in front of my Grandpa's roses. Placing Ratface on a folded napkin in the container, I closed the lid. It fit snug in the hole I dug. Then, covering his grave, I placed a stone marker, so I could go back and visit him. Dad was the only witness.  
We rode home in silence. I felt my heart swimming in my chest, like an unmoored ship in a storm. It was only when I was in my own bed, listening for that squeaky wheel, did I realize he was truly gone.


	13. Almost Over

When my brother raped me, he was always careful. Do it before Mom gets home and only bruise what can be covered easiest. He was cautious to keep me conscious for quick cover ups when Mom would come home early. It wasn't so simple in summer. We would be together, all day, every day. I learned to hate summer the way some people hate winter. My body was a toy, it just happened to be sentient.  
Alot of times, he would creep up behind me, grabbing my breasts. He'd say I wanted it because my nipples were soft. He had skipped Sex Ed. He cornered me in my room again, one summer day. He pinned me with one hand and started banging my head into the floor, over and over and over again, with the other.  
He ripped my clothes off, all three layers. My shirt and jeans, my bathing suit, and my underwear. I went through a lot of clothes that way. He jammed a hand between my thighs and pried them open. He thrust into me again, but every time was first time. Suddenly, we heard the front door open, and Mitchell started throwing clothes at me. I was so dizzy, I could barely move.  
“Where are y'all?” Mom called, with just the smallest trace of panic.  
“We're playing in my room” I answered, sticking my head out the door. We walked as casually out of my room as possible. We had dinner and were watching T.V by 8 o clock. Mitchell left the room for a few minutes and I thought “This is it! Tell her!”. I opened my mouth as my brother pranced back around the corner. My mouth snapped shut and he looked at me like I was suspicious. I wanted to rip the eyes out of his fat head. But, instead, I swallowed and went to go read. The next day, he made up for lost time.


	14. Big Girls Don't Cry Over Gummy Bears

We had moved in 2007, out of Norfolk and into Hampton, in the middle of the school year. My brother and I ended up at the same school, and it was a nightmare. Lashing out at each other in the hall and tattling about undone homework. Never put twins in the same enclosed space, it doesn't end well. The beatings got worse, from Mom and Mitchell. It was almost in tandem.  
Finally, the worst happened. My brother knocked me out while he was on top of me. I woke up confused and covered in my brother's bodily fluids. I knew I had to do something, so I wrote a letter and stuck it under my Mom's pillow. The next morning, my brother was still at a sleepover, and Mom wanted to talk about my note.  
“Is this real?” she asked, waving the letter around.  
“Yes” I said, trying to get her to look at me.  
“Something like this could ruin your brother's life.”  
“I know.”  
“Why didn't you tell me sooner?”  
“I was scared.”  
“This is partially your fault, you know, for not telling me sooner.”  
I stayed quiet after that, my face got tight and burned with shame. She wouldn't look at me or touch me. I felt diseased. When Mitchell got home, Mom sent me to the store for hours. When I was finally allowed home, Mom told me to pack, that I was going to Grandma's while she figured things out. I was being sent away.  
I packed in silence, and Miss Marie showed up to take me to Grandma's. Miss Marie was a friend of Mom's from ODU. She taught math and had tutored me on several occasions. During the car ride up, I was silent. When I got there, I didn't talk to Grandma about what happened because Mom told me to not “upset her for no reason”. Mom didn't call, so for two weeks, I just swung on the swing my grandpa had made. I'd kick real hard and lean back to look at the sky. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, and I felt like I was flying.  
Finally, Mom decided to come get me. The whole ride we listened to the radio to avoid talking. I felt betrayed by her. I thought “How DARE she! I was the one hurt this time. Not you, not him! ME!”. I still stayed silent. When we got home, Mom explained the plan to us. We were going to therapy. A special program that would cure my brother, deal with the abuse.  
We went to this therapist for a year. I wasn't allowed to wear tank tops or shorts in the house anymore, not that that rule was really necessary. I already stuck to long sleeves, even in summer. I hated that therapist. She reminded me of bad syrup, smothering and cold. After the year was up, she said my brother was cured, it would never happen again, and we could get on with our lives.  
She lied.  
Ten days after she said he was 'cured', it happened again. It was mid-summer and we were supposed to be cleaning. Not only was it hell, living with my rapist, being reminded everyday about what happened and having to pretend it was OK, but now he wasn't doing his share of the work. He was sitting on the couch, watching daytime TV, and eating out of a giant novelty bag of gummy bears.  
“Get up and help me” I said. He ignored me.  
“Get. Up. Now.” I growled. He still didn't respond. With some hesitation, I grabbed the bag of gummy bears out of his hands.  
“Help me clean” I said. My voice was a little higher than normal. His eyes were black, again.  
“Give them back” he demanded, hand outstretched.  
“Not until you help me” I said. I prayed that I had enough conviction in my voice to scare him into doing what I wanted. I didn't.  
He flung me onto the couch and jumped on me, pushing the air out of my lungs. He grabbed a fistful of my hair.  
“Give. Them. Now.”  
I squeaked out a no. His free fist started pushing up under my rib cage. I felt involuntary tears sliding down the top of my cheeks and puddling into my ears. He took my head and started slamming it into the arm of the couch. The last thing I remember is the sound of a plane flying over the house.  
When I came to, I was lying half naked, covered in semen. Glancing under the coffee table, I saw my blue underwear in shreds. My head felt so fuzzy, and I just wanted to sleep, but everything was wrong. I sat up, stiff and sticky, My brother was back on the couch, like nothing had happened, eating gummy bears.  
I grabbed my ruined clothes and crawled over to the stairs. I felt so exposed, like everyone in the world had the ability to see through our walls, and they were laughing at me. I washed everything off and doctored my cuts. The back of my head was sore, and I was still woozy. But, I changed anyways and went back downstairs.  
I finished the chores, giving my brother a wide berth. They had promised but they lied. I tried not to jump at everything, but every little noise made my heart stop and my mouth go dry. Mom finally got home and made dinner. She looked at us, both silent, and asked about our day. I didn't say a word.  
For five months, I didn't say a word. I didn't want a repeat of getting fixed but not. Thanks to my brief career in field hockey, I had two thick field hockey sticks. I warned him if he ever touched me again, I would beat him to death. He just smiled, like 'oh, how adorable' and I felt a anger start creeping up.  
For five months, I bottled it all inside. Then, it was Christmas time and we were at Grandma's house with the family. The only thing I could think was 'None of them know' and my tongue felt heavy with secrets. I couldn't break the rules.  
I walked outside, snow crunching under me, and stared at the house from the tree line. It reminded me of a Norman Rockwell painting. Then, my brother came outside, steam pouring off his uncovered head. I backed up further, only to run into a fence.  
“Mom sent me to come get you” he called, puffing like a chimney. I stayed silent and still, giving off patented “leave me alone” vibes.  
“What's your problem, Psycho?” he asked, sneering. Then, everything snapped. I started hurling fistfuls of snow at him, screaming.  
“YOU RUINED MY LIFE!!!!” I finally choked out, and collapsed onto my knees, sobbing. Mitchell was still, and then, he snorted and giggled, finally turning it into a full belly laugh. In that singular Moment, I knew I would hate him for the rest of my life, that I would never forgive him as long as I lived.  
In January, I told on my brother for the second time, only this time Mom had to go to the police. It was a Wednesday, and Mom sent a cab to pick me up from practice. It brought me to the police station. My breathing turned shallow when I saw the big stone walls.  
Mom met me inside and a female officer took us back to an interrogation room. They brought us soda and chips, but my stomach was spinning too much to worry about food. We sat in that room for two hours before they came to question me. They wanted to know everything. How many times, how many ways, how much was I 'complicit' in. All of these questions, and the male officer was boring his eyes into me like I was the criminal. He made an off hand comment about how many times it was a false report before leaving. I've done research, and per 100 reports, on average only 2% are false reports and only 12% of cases are prosecuted.  
We finally left around 11:30pm, without my brother. My mother was distraught, weeping and snotting. I felt sick with relief. When we got home, Mom went straight to bed, but I stayed up, embracing the space. When I finally went to bed, I had a nightmare. I saw my brother's face filled with black fangs, getting closer and closer. Long claws reached up and surrounded me. I woke up in a cold sweat. It was the first of many.  
I took the day off school and Mom didn't object. I felt empty, weightless. Something inside was loose and wanted out. It terrified me. What real fear was, was yet to come. We still had to go to court. Mom sunk deeper and deeper into herself, barely leaving her room most days. She would dress special for court days, like the judge would make a verdict on Mitchell based on how well she looked. Even Dad dressed up for court, once. The fact that he came at all was the big surprise.  
My brother was charged with 7 counts of rape and 7 counts of incest. He pleaded no contest. Then, we had to go to another court to deal with whether or not Mitchell would have to be on the registry. Mom made me testify in defense of him. I perjured myself, so my family wouldn't hate me.  
He was supposed to be in until our 21st birthday, but once again, the world bowed to my brother and he only served three years. Mom was distant, at best. I'd catch her looking at me like I was an apparition plaguing her. She would visit him almost every weekend. When people asked where my brother was, I said a special school upstate. I had gotten good at lying.  
Then, November 11th, my brother was released on good behavior and I had my first panic attack. My whole senior year was talk of three thing: graduation, college, and forgiving my brother. He was living in Winchester with our Grandmother and I vowed to never go near the place again. My mother couldn't understand. She wanted her family to be back together so bad, for it all to be like it was before. I missed holidays, I missed my family. But, I couldn't go back, not if I ever wanted to be OK.  
The worrisome part is, not only did I miss my Dad and my Mom, but I missed my brother, too. It wasn't always bad, and the good memories hurt more than the bad ones. He could be kind and thoughtful. He never tried to protect me, though. No even once.  
When I was still in elementary school, there was this tiny white kid named Phoenix Grace. He was a good kid but he was always letting his mouth run away with him. We were all standing in line to leave the lunchroom one day, when he started mouthing off again. This kid named Daquan turned around and started egging him on. They started moving closer together, and I saw how big Daquan's fist was.  
“Pick on someone your own size” I said, stepping in between them. Daquan narrowed his eyes at me. Then, he slapped me. It didn't really hurt but I was so surprised I started crying. Even Daquan looked flabbergasted. Then, I heard it. My brother's laugh.  
That hurt more than my cheek. I was betrayed, my life was out of orbit. I didn't want to believe any of it. You're not supposed to hurt your sister, especially your twin. There is a law of blood, that no matter how much you hate each other, only you are allowed to hurt your family. But, he laughed.  
I could say that I got my revenge, that I didn't let it phase me, but it would be a lie. I felt like I deserved it. I had stepped out of line and was rightly punished. I expected it. It was my fault.


	15. College

I went to college in the fall of 2013. Hollins University. Finally, I was somewhere nobody knew me. I was delightfully anonymous, another face in the crowd. It was refreshing, and for the first time in a long time, people didn't tiptoe around me. A clean slate, and I was determined to make the most of it.  
I made friends, went to class, and I was happy. I wasn't what happened to me, because nobody knew. Then, everything changed in January. My brother had broken probation.  
He and a friend broke into a pedophile's house, looking for proof that his friend's little sister was abused by the guy. It was a closed crime scene, so when a neighbor saw them sneaking in, they called the cops. A k-9 unit was dispatched, and my brother and his friend tried to hide in the attic. They nearly killed a police dog before they were arrested.  
It got into the local paper, besmirching the family name, and made national headlines. However, the local paper had done it's homework, opening the closed file on my brother and I. It didn't say my name specifically, but it wasn't hard to guess who the victim was.  
When Mom called me with the news, I nearly collapsed. My whole world was back to dangling on a string. I told Mom I was OK, and disappeared back to my dorm room. Once there, I wept big, shiny tears, staining the collar of my shirt. Now, I had to tell, before everyone saw the news. I gathered my friends, telling them as much as they needed to know, sparing them the gory details. By the end of it, I felt numb and my hands were red from being wrung so hard.  
And then, the predictable happened. Dozens of “I'm sorry” and “If you ever need to talk” and blah, blah, blah. That's what I hate the most. The pity, the doe-eyed looks filled with excitement and intrigue, but mild revulsion at the feeling. I was an oddity. Not only a twin, but now a freak, too.  
It was never the same after that. Someone would say something to someone else, and then I'd have to explain all over again. Telling it means reliving it. That hurt more than could be described. There was no rhyme or reason to what my brother did. All these years, I've comforted myself with the thought that he didn't mean to hurt me, he was just trying to work out his own trauma. I was a test dummy.


	16. Conclusion

I have tried talking about what happened. Opening up with all the stories, all the things I could say. Telling my Mom, the first time, she couldn't even look at me or touch me. I got sent away for two weeks, so Mitchell could be in this 'patented, fool-proof' program that would 'cure' him, which Mom had found. Mom just called it therapy. Ten days after we were done with counseling, he raped me again. I wore at least three layers of clothing for years, and every time he would rip them off. He tried to suffocate me, burn me, drown me, cut me, beat me.  
I had to live with my rapist. And the entire time, I was told that he was the good one and that I should be more like him. The second time I went to the hospital, I asked to go in, and Mom walked out on me. She was frustrated and couldn't take it anymore. She said I needed to be honest and plan for the future. She said I needed to stop being difficult. I wanted to cry, all the time. I spent almost all my time thinking of ways to kill myself. I had pushed my mother away, I felt like my Dad had left me. You couldn't tell me I was irrational or delusional, because I felt like I had ruined everything.  
For a long time, being lonely scared me, then it pissed me off, then it was this dull ache pounding behind my heart. I laid awake at night, trying to think who I would call if I needed someone. I could think of no one. I was a burden unto myself.  
When I was three, and the family was still together and living in Winchester, Mom took us to the Shenandoah river to cool off. The heat was unbearable that summer, and we didn't have A/C. Mom got us situated in the shallows, and I was busy looking at the rocks and minnows. I slipped and got up. Then, Mitchell slipped, and Mom came running. While she was trying to get him up, I got dragged further into the river. Once the currant caught me, I was off like a shot.  
Mom became frantic, trying to run down river after me and still hold onto my brother. Further downstream, a fisherman caught me in his net. He saw Mom barreling through the brush and returned me to her. I didn't end up with my fear of drowning until much later.  
It was when Mom took us on trips with her, and we would stay at the Ramada Inn with the indoor pool. Not only was it so much easier for my brother to do what he wanted, but the pool became dangerous, too. My brother would follow me around in the pool, dunking my head underwater and holding it there. Sometimes, he would cannonball on top of me.  
I learned to fear swimming. It was bad enough that any bathing suit I put on made me look like fruit. We'd get back to the hotel room, still dripping, and he would rip my suit off and just lay into me. I used to count how many times, but soon it all blurred together. It all felt the same after a while.  
There is a special place inside of me, where I would go and hide when it would happen. It was like everything that was me got condensed into this little ball, and then get tucked into the back of my rib cage. Somewhere he couldn't touch me.  
He would sneak up behind me and put his hands on my breasts. He'd breathe, hot and sour down the back of my neck, and everything in me would curdle with revulsion. He took to knocking me out, making me wake up covered in his semen and sweat. But, I couldn't hurt him. He was my twin brother. I wanted to love him, but couldn't. Despite everything that happened, I wanted to believe at least one family member cared about me. The only one who was kind, who treated me with respect, was my Grandfather. He died while Mitchell was in Juvie and I was in High School.  
I'd like to believe my Grandpa is up there. That, when I die, maybe I get to be with him. He could wrap me up in his big, farmer tanned arms and I would shrink down to the age I was cutest at. He'd say “Welcome, big girl” and pat my side like a fatted calf in the pasture. I never used to mind when he would call me big. He would slice apples and make sandwiches for me, drive to Mcdonalds and get me ice cream. He'd bait my fishing hook when we went down to the pond to fish. When I was little, I wanted to grow up and live on the farm, just like he did. Help birth calves, fix machines around the house, work in the garden.  
If I could get over it with a snap of my fingers or a twitch of my nose, I would. The thought of going home, where a lot of it happened, was Earth shattering for me. Then, we moved, and I realized it doesn't matter where I go or what I do. I'm still going to have to live with it.  
The scariest part of my brother was his eyes. I could always tell it was coming when his eyes turned black. He'd start breathing shorter and clamp his hands on my arms. He would shake me, sometimes. I can never forget cleaning his room when he went to boy scout camp. He had had snow globes from our trip to Disney world on his bedside table. They got knocked off and shattered. While Mom sorted his laundry, I started picking glass out of the carpet.  
I was doing it very fast, so Mom wouldn't start yelling at me. The faster I went, the sharper the pain in my knees grew. After finishing, I limped to the bathroom and plucked the glass out of the puckered skin of my knees. For a long time, I hated snow globes and wore long pants. I thought the scars were ugly. I grew up, and stopped caring what they looked like or what anyone else thought of them.  
Living in someone's shadow is suffocating. I thought if I was born first, or was more intelligent, got better grades, than everyone would like me better. My brother was always charismatic. He'd charm the pants off anyone we came in contact with. Old people, relatives, my friends. They all thought he was great and couldn't understand why I hated him so much. They had no idea.  
I understand now. People expect me to get up and get over it. I had an ex-boyfriend who told me to get over my fear of sex, that I should just do it. He was wrong. When and if I choose to be intimate with someone, I have to trust them completely. That they'll listen when I say no, and stop when I say stop. My brother gets a job, a car, friends, even boyfriends. My family gave him a second chance, and I felt like I didn't get anything. He moved in with Grandma after he got out, and I stopped traveling. I missed birthdays, thanksgiving and Christmas.  
On our 21st birthday, I spent it with him, at Grandma's, with the family. My mother was so happy. I cornered him in the kitchen alone when we got there that day, and warned him, if he ever so much as grazed my skin by accident, I would not hesitate to kill him. I still hate my brother, maybe I always will.  
I'm told healing is not linear. That you get there when you get there, and that there is no 'there' to get to. There is no finish line where everything is magically okay, and it's like you never had problems to begin with. I'm still mad. Mad at the world, for not protecting me like I thought it should have. For treating me like I was second best. I blamed my mother and my father, my family, my friends. I blamed everyone else for not seeing something was wrong, for not rescuing me in time.  
I realize, I can't live like that. I don't have to forgive anyone, but I do need to let the anger go. I don't know where I'm going from here. I don't know if anyone will ever read this besides me, but I do know that it is important that I get this out.  
If something like this is happening to you, or it's already over and now you don't know where you go from here, I understand. I wrote this for me and you. I wrote this to let you know that you're not alone, and I believe you. I wrote this because, if no one else will, I will rescue myself.


End file.
